by P. N. Elrod
She released a shaky sigh of relief and it sounded too much like a sob. “What else does he say? James? Are you sure? Tell me what to do!”
Bradford’s old monk tortured her a little longer, not answering. He said he could not hear well for the dark spirits trying to come between, then: “Ah! ’E is clear at last. ’E says ’is love is deep, and ’e wants you to be a’ppy on this plane. You are to open your ’eart to new love. Ah—the ’appiness that awaits you is great. ’E smiles! Such joy for you, sweet child, such joy!”
Flora shook her head a little. Some part of her must have known this was all wrong.
Time to confirm it.
I’d pulled out the curtain material and draped it over my head, tying one of the napkins kerchief-like around my neck to keep the stuff from slipping off. It looked phony as hell, I was sure, but in the darkness with this crowd it would lay ’em in the aisles.
Picking up Weisinger’s things, I eased from behind the screen. Everyone was looking at Bradford. He might have seen me in the shadows beyond the candle glow, but his eyes were shut.
Made to order, I thought, and accurately bounced the keys off his skull. It was a damned good throw, and I followed quickly with the other things. The comb landed square in the cake, the pipe skidded along the table and slid into Flora’s lap. She shrieked and jumped up.
If Frere Leon had a good entrance, that was nothing to compare to that of Jack Fleming, fake ghost-for-hire.
I vanished and reappeared but only just, holding to a mostly transparent state—standing smack-dab in the middle of the table. The top half of my body was visible, beautifully obscured by the pale curtain. The bottom half went right into the wood.
It didn’t feel good but was pretty spectacular. Their screaming helped.
With some effort I pressed forward, moving right through the table, candles and all, down its remaining length, working steadily toward Bradford. His eyes were now wide open, and it was a treat to see him shed the trance to see some real supernatural trouble. When I raised a pale, curtain-swathed hand to point at him, I thought he’d swallow his tongue.
Then I willed myself higher, rising until I was clear of the table and floating free. I made one swimming circuit of the room, then dove toward Bradford, letting myself go solid as I dropped.
I took in enough breath to fill the room with a wordless and hopefully terrifying bellow and hit him like bowling ball taking out one last stubborn pin. It was a nasty impact for us both, but I had the advantage of being able to vanish again. So far as I could tell he was sprawled flat and screaming with the rest.
Remaining invisible was uphill work for me now, but necessary. I clung close to Bradford so he could enjoy my unique kind of cold. I’d been told it was like death’s own breath from the Arctic. Through chattering teeth he babbled nonsense about dark spirits being gathered against him and that he had to leave before they manifested again. He got some argument and a suggestion they all pray to dispel the negative influences, but he was already barreling out the door.
I stuck with him until he got in his car, then slipped into the backseat and went solid. He screeched like a woman when I snaked one arm around his neck in a half-nelson. I’m damned strong. He couldn’t break free. When he stopped making noise, I noticed him staring at the rearview mirror. It was empty, of course.
Leaning in, my mouth close to his ear, in my best imitation of the Shadow, I whispered, “Game’s over, Svengali. Digging up that grave pissed off the wrong kind of things. We’re on to you and we’re hungry. You want to see another dawn?”
He whimpered, and the sound of his racing heart filled the car. I took that as a yes.
“Get out of town. Get out of the racket. Go back to the stage. Better a live magician than a dead medium. Got that? Got that?”
Not waiting for a reply, I vanished, exiting fast. He gunned the motor to life and shot away like Barney Oldfield looking to make a new speed record.
* * *
As the wrecked evening played itself out to the survivors in the parlor, I made it back to the linen closet, killed the light, and parked my duff on an overturned bucket to wait in the dark. I needed the rest.
The house grew quiet. The last guests departed with enough copy from tonight to fill their monthly pamphlets for years to come. Escort would have some interesting reading to share. I got the impression Flora was not planning another sitting, though a few people assured her that tonight’s events should be continued.
The residents finished and came upstairs one by one. Flora Weisinger went into James’s room and stayed there for a long time, crying. Abby found her, they talked in low voices for a time, and Flora cried some more. I wasn’t sorry. Better now than later, married to a leech. Apparently things worked out. The sisters emerged, each going to her own room. Some servant made a last round, checking the windows, then things fell silent.
I’d taken off the spook coverings, folding the curtain and napkin, slipping them in with similar ones on a shelf. Retrieving my coat and hat I was ready to make a quiet exit until catching the faint sound of “Gloomy Sunday” seeping through the walls.
Damn.
This night had been a flying rout for Bradford, but Flora was still stuck in her pit. She might dig it even deeper until it was a match for her husband’s grave.
Someone needed to talk sense into her. I felt the least qualified for the job, but soon as I recognized the music I got that twinge again.
I did my vanishing act and went across to Flora’s room.
The music grew louder as I floated toward it, just solid enough to check the lay of the land. The lights were out, only a little glow from around her heavy curtains, enough to navigate and not be seen.
Quick as I could I re-formed, flicked the phonograph’s needle arm clear, and pulled out the record. It made a hell of a crunch when I broke it to pieces.
There was a feminine gasp from the bed, and she fumbled the light on. By then I was gone, but sensed her coming over. Another gasp, then—
“James?” Her voice quavered with that heartbreaking hope, now tinged with anguish. “James? Oh, please, darling, talk to me. I know you’re here.”
She’d picked up on the cologne.
“James? Please . . .”
This would be tough. I drifted over to a wall and gradually took shape, keeping it slow so she had time to stare, and if not get used to me, then at least not scream.
Hands to her mouth, eyes big, and her skin dead white, she looked ready to faint. This was cruel. A different kind from Bradford’s type of torture, but still cruel.
“James sent me,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Please don’t be afraid.” She’d frozen in place and I wasn’t sure she understood. I repeated myself and she finally nodded.
“Where is he?” she demanded, matching my soft tone.
“He’s with God.” It seemed best to keep things as simple as possible. “Everything that man told you was a lie. You know that now, don’t you?”
She nodded again, the jerky movement very similar to Abby’s mannerism. “Please, let me speak to James. I must tell him—”
“He knows already. He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing to forgive. It was his time to go, that’s all. Not your fault.”
“But it was.”
“Nope.” I raised my right hand. “Swear to God. And I should know.”
That had her nonplussed. “What. . .who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
“That cologne, it’s his.”
“So you’d know he sent me. Flora, he loves you and knows you love him. But this is not the way to honor his memory. He wants you to give it up before it destroys you. He’s dead and you’re alive. There’s a reason you’re here.”
“What? Tell me!”
“Doesn’t work like that, you have to find out for yourself. You won’t find answers in a Ouija board, though.”
Flora had tentatively moved closer to me. “You look real.”
“Thanks, I try my best. I can’t stay long. Not allowed. I have to make sure you’re clear-headed on this. No more guilt—it wasn’t your fault—get rid of this psychic junk and live your life. James wants you to be happy again. If not now, then someday.”
“That’s all?”
“Flora. . .that’s a lifetime. A good one if you choose it.”
“I’ll ... all right. Would you tell James—”
“He knows. Now get some sleep. New day in the morning. Enjoy it.” I was set to gradually vanish again, then remembered— “One last thing, Flora. James’s wedding band.” I held my hand out.
She shrank away. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. It belongs with him and you know it. Come on.”
Fresh tears ran down her face, but maybe this time there would be healing for her. She had his ring on a gold chain around her neck and reluctantly took it off. She read the inscription one more time, kissed the ring, and gave it over.
“Everything will be fine,” I said. “This is from James.” I didn’t think he’d mind. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, very lightly, and vanished before she could open her eyes.
* * *
For the next few hours I drove around Chicago, feeling like a prize idiot and hoping I’d not done even worse damage to Flora than Alistair Bradford. I didn’t think so, but the worry stuck.
Eventually I found my way back to that big cemetery and got myself inside, walking quickly along the path to the fancy mausoleum and the grave behind it.
I was damned tired, but had one last job to do to earn Abby Saeger’s two bucks.
Pinching the ring in my fingers as Flora had done at the séance, I extended my arm and disappeared once more, this time sinking into the earth. It was the most unpleasant sensation, pushing down through the broken soil, pushing until what had been my hand found a greater resistance.
That would be James Weisinger’s coffin.
I’d never attempted anything like this before but was reasonably sure it was possible. This was a hell of a way to find out for certain.
Pushing just a little more against the resistance, it suddenly ceased to be there. Carefully not thinking what that meant, I focused my concentration on getting just my hand to go solid.
It must have worked, because it hurt like a Fury, felt like my hand was being sawed away at the wrist. Just before the pain got to be too much I felt the gold ring slip from my grasp.
One instant I was six feet under with my hand in a coffin and the next I was stumbling in the snow, clutching my wrist and trying not to yell too much.
My hand was still attached. That was good news. I worked the fingers until they stopped looking so clawlike, then sagged against a tree. What a night.
I got back in my car just as the sleet began ticking against the windows, trying to get in. It was creepy. I wanted some sound to mask it but hesitated turning on the radio, apprehensive that “Gloomy Sunday” might be playing again.
What the hell. Music was company, proof that there were other people awake somewhere. I could always change the station.
When it warmed up, Bing Crosby sang “Pennies from Heaven.” Someone at the radio station had noticed the weather, perhaps, and was having his little joke.
I felt that twinge again, but now it raised a smile.
* * * * * * *
__________
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
Author’s Note: In the Vampire Files series I introduced a new bloodsucker to the cast, the unpredictable—and often unstable—Whitey Kroun. This story sold to Moonstone Books in 2009 for their DRACULA AND THE LEGIONS OF THE UNDEAD anthology. In case you wondered, there is such a cave in St. Paul and gangsters did hang out there.
St. Paul, February 1938
Gabriel “Whitey” Kroun drove to St. Paul because it wasn’t Chicago.
In a new town chances were good no one would know his face and thus his reputation. The reputation belonged to the part of him nicknamed Whitey, but he was gone and Gabe was now in charge. He was still getting used to it.
Gabe had few memories of being Whitey Kroun, but counted it to be a good thing. Whitey had been bad company, a real bastard. Gabriel, however, was a nearly blank slate, thanks to the bullet still lodged in his head. He needed to figure out what to do about himself, so he drove to St. Paul, found a hotel, and paid for a week’s worth of thinking time.
But one full evening of staring at the walls gave him cabin fever, not insight.
On the second night he asked the desk clerk about local distractions, preferably noisy ones that closed late. He’d noticed a bowling alley farther up the street. He didn’t know if he could bowl, but the option to find out was there. He might like it. Instead, the clerk recommended a nightclub close to the hotel called the Royal Arms—which turned out to be in a cave.
Well, that sounded interesting.
Local lore had that the place was originally used to grow mushrooms until the owner found more money was to be had in the booze business. A later entrepreneur fancied up the entry to look like a castle, complete with crenellations and fake drawbridge, which was nuts, but the gimmick worked. Business boomed even through Prohibition, and had attracted dubious types like Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson.
Gabe thought he’d fit in unnoticed.
Inside, away from the snow-laced wind, he decided the place would appeal to anyone looking for something different. The natural cave had been improved on, carved more deeply into the side of a massive hill. The barrel-vaulted stone ceiling about ten feet overhead flowed seamlessly down into rounded walls. Except for tables, chairs, and the bar, there wasn’t a corner or sharp angle in sight. It looked like a giant worm had burrowed out a huge cavity for itself, then unaccountably left.
He decided not to check his hat and coat, unsure of how long he’d stay. His shoulders kept trying to crowd his ears, as though reacting to the press of surrounding stone. The room was huge and a heartening number of electric lights made up for the lack of windows, but what if the power failed? However excellent his night vision had become, he didn’t like the dark, which was ironic, but there it was.
For all the Royal Arms being under the insulating ground, it was gratifyingly loud. The stone walls threw the band music back, forth, and inside out if you counted the echoes. People trying to talk over it added another layer to the din. He liked the distraction.
He pointed toward a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. A cheerful waitress who didn’t see anything odd about that led him over. He ordered coffee.
“What do you want in it?” she asked.
“Sugar,” he said with a smile and wink, giving her fifty cents. “Keep the change, cutey.”
She flashed a bigger smile back and bounced away. He liked the view. Maybe he just needed company, female company. That was a possibility—if this was the kind of place where one could arrange such a transaction. He checked things over, appraising the crowd.
The band was small: a piano player, drummer, and a guy who switched between a horn and a clarinet, depending on the tune. The three played as though it was the first time they’d ever worked together. It’d be embarrassing but no one paid them any attention. The few couples in the room weren’t dancing, absorbed by their own concerns. Other drinkers had the bored air of long-time regulars who had nowhere else to go. Most glanced his way when he came in, but that’s how it always was when a newcomer shows up.
He spotted some familiar-looking mugs, but only because their type was to be found in every town. The odds were that he didn’t know them personally, but Gabe kept an eye open for the subtle and not-so-subtle signs of recognition.
Like the ones coming from the guy over there in the corner with his back to the wall. He was in shadow, which would otherwise have made him invisible to anyone else. Gabriel let him keep his illusion and pretended not to notice how the man’s face tightened, making his eyes go hard and narrow.
Two things would happen: the guy would leave him alone or
he’d come over. If he came over he’d either pay his respects or cautiously ask if there was a problem. Gabe would assure him there was no problem and not be believed.
Cripes, I should have gone bowling.
The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and a sugar bowl.
“Can you take a load off for a few minutes?” he asked. “I don’t like drinking alone.”
In his solitude of the hotel room he found the acid from his newly-formed and inexperienced conscience had an easier time of etching holes in his brain, which was annoying. The bad stuff had been Whitey’s doing, after all. He wanted some practice being Gabriel, whoever the hell he might turn out to be. Getting out and about with strangers would help.
She glanced around and slipped onto the chair across from him. “I guess so, it’s slow tonight.”
“One of these guys your boss?”
“He’s keeps to his office, doesn’t like the band we got in this week.”
“I’ve heard better.” Gabe pushed the coffee toward her. “Here, I don’t want it after all.”
He knew he must have drunk coffee in the life he’d had before waking up dead and craving something entirely different, but now it smelled like cigar ashes. She said she couldn’t, but he mentioned it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.
“If you’re sure. . .” She spooned in three sugars, sipped, and apparently liked the result. He wondered if that much sugar would sweeten her own taste, should he get the opportunity to taste her.
He could easily make that happen. All it took was a little hypnosis, one of the advantages of being a vampire. Fix her with a focused look, whisper a few words, and she’d do anything for him. He could lead her outside into dark and freezing shadows and drain her dry. She wouldn’t be aware of any of it. When he was done, he’d leave the body in a drift to let the flying snow blanket her from view. They wouldn’t find her for weeks. That’d be funny.
